


All that Glitters

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fae & Fairies, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6398905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean get hit by fairy dust and have sex in the middle of a forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that Glitters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annie46fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/gifts).



> beta'd by [ ♥](https://t.co/d5hOdJaXWj)  
> written for [spnspringfling](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com). First posted [here](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/142021.html).

Bright green glitters in the sun. The fairy dust suffuses the air around them, the clearing even brighter than before.

Dean tries not to breathe, but he knows it's too late. It's already everywhere, around them, on them.

"No," he hears Sam gasp, dismayed. 

Dean turns. It's automatic, ingrained. Sam is in trouble or in pain, Dean can't look away, can't turn away. Needs to be there, needs to help, needs to take whatever is bothering Sam away and fix things. 

The moment their eyes meet, he realizes his mistake. Light, soft laughter echoes through the trees around them.

_The first person you look at._

It's his last clear thought before everything else fades away. His world narrows down to Sam. Sam. _Sam._

They come together hastily, mouths crashing together, fingers tugging and pulling at clothes. All Dean can think now is _off_ , and _skin_ , and _Sam_. Panting into each other's mouths, bodies pressed together tightly, they sink down onto the mossy, grassy ground.

+

Dean stares at himself in the mirror.

He sees fading bruises and healing wounds from recent hunts, scars he barely even notices anymore because he's so familiar with them.

And then there are fresh finger-shaped bruises on his hips from Sam's hands holding him tight as they rutted together. There's a hickey that Sam kissed, sucked, bit onto his shoulder. On his stomach, starting at the height of his belly button, there are three perfect bite marks leading down to his hip. 

Dean stares at himself, breathes slowly, carefully. 

When Sam starts knocking on the door, first asking then pleading with him to open it, to talk to him, Dean ignores him.

+

"We're not talking about it," Dean says as he exits the bathroom, hot steam billowing out in big clouds behind him. "This never happened."

Sam looks at him, resigned. For a moment, Dean thinks he'll argue with him but then Sam nods, presses his lips together in a tight line, and brushes past Dean.

+

Dean dreams about what happened in the clearing that night.

He's naked, sprawled out over Sam's lap, and Sam is gripping his hips as they grind together desperately. The warmth of the sun shining down on his back is nothing compared to the heat of Sam's body, the heat of his kisses, wet and deep and demanding. Precome is smeared over their skin, their hard cocks trapped between their stomachs.

Sam pushes him back, down, crawls between Dean's spread legs. He kisses Dean's jaw, his throat. He sucks the skin of Dean's shoulder between his teeth, their hips rocking together. Dean feels hazy, want and need coursing through his body, and he hears the echoes of his moans mixing with the breathless, hitching noises Sam is making.

Sam's hands are still gripping him tightly, holding him down. They rut together. Sam moves down his body, leaving a wet, hot trail on Dean's skin, and Dean buries his fingers in Sam's hair, tugs and pulls. 

"Sam," Dean groans, the first word that's spoken between them, the only one. Sam hums against his stomach, his teeth closing down around smooth skin. Once. Twice. Three times. Sharp pain mixes with pleasure, and when Sam grips Dean's cock with one hand, strokes him a couple of times, Dean comes with a cry.

He lies there, breathless, panting, his head swimming. Sam shifts, moves over him, and rolls his hips against him, movements sloppy and needy. When he comes, his head is thrown back, the long line of his neck exposed. 

He's sweaty and flushed and gorgeous. So, so gorgeous.

Dean is already hard again, and Sam pulls him into another bruising kiss. He doesn't stop moving and Dean doesn't want him to, ever.

He wakes up in his bed, his breath ragged, his cock so hard it almost hurts. He fists his hand in the stiff, cheap sheets and bites down on his bottom lip until it hurts.

+

They don't go back. For the first time in a long time they give up, give in.

Let the fairies wreak havoc, Dean thinks bitterly. Let them fuck up peoples' lives, or let someone else handle this. It's not his problem anymore, can't be, because if he stays in this goddamn place any longer, so close to where Sam and he kissed and touched and fucked, he'll break. He doesn't have many limits, but this is one. No can do. Sorry world. Dean Winchester is out.

+

They drive for miles and miles the next day. Sam mostly stares out the window, silent. Sullen.

Dean cranks up the music, tries to pretend it's a day like any other. Just them, on the road in the Impala. Nothing special. Not the day after he and Sam had crazy, wild sex in the middle of a clearing after being doused in fairy dust. 

He thinks about other things instead. The music, what he wants to have for lunch, the kind of hunt he hopes for next—vampires maybe, because chopping off heads would feel very satisfying right now.

Sometimes, he catches himself glancing over at Sam though, his gaze lingering just a little too long, his thoughts straying to places he doesn't want them to stray go. His palms get sweaty and his stomach lurches every time—or maybe it's his heart.

+

"We can't just ignore this," Sam tries that night. They're in a different motel, a different city, a different state. Far, far away from the fairies.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean replies. His voice is firm and hard.

That night, he dreams they're on a bed. It goes on and on and on. Sweaty skin, deep kisses, their bodies moving together.

He wakes up in a dark room. He's hard, and his throat is closed up, and he feels nauseous. From the way he breathes, Dean can tell Sam is awake too. 

Neither of them moves or says a word.

+

Rise, rinse, repeat.

Their days are silent, the tension thick, and the dreams won't leave Dean alone.

+

They're in a bar.

Nothing fixes things like a few drinks do. Or, if that fails, a few more. It's a good plan, solid, Winchester style. It's worked for Dean countless times. He drinks until he's too out of it to even dream, until he's forgotten anything ever happened, until he can move on.

Dean's plan is intercepted, though, by a tiny brunette who fixes her gaze on Sam the moment they walk in. Dean feels a flash of jealousy, of _mine_ , that he tries not to think about further, because Sam isn't his. Things aren't like that between them, never have been. The hickey on his shoulder has already faded and the bite marks are gone too. There's nothing left of what happened between them. 

Dean's stomach hurts.

The girl keeps glancing at Sam while they silently down their first drink, then a second and a third, with a couple of shots each.

Dean goes to take a piss with a sense of foreboding. 

When he comes back, the girl is standing at the bar next to Sam. Her hand is on his arm and she's leaning in close enough that her boobs are brushing up against Sam.

It's too much. Too soon. And Dean has had enough to drink not to care about what he's doing; all he knows is that he can't watch Sam hook up with someone else right now.

He marches over, moves in close. He settles his hand on Sam's neck. "'m back," he says unnecessarily. Sam looks up, bangs in his eyes and pink lips parted. Dean wants to bend him over the bar, or the pool table, or maybe press him up against the wall, kiss him until Sam is hard and wanting, until he tastes and smells like Dean.

"Yeah. Okay," Sam says. Quiet. Confused.

Dean presses his fingers into the warm skin of Sam's neck, his hair tickling him. "Let's get out of here, Sammy," he says. Sam hesitates, then nods and gets up on unsteady, too long legs. He gives the girl a small, polite smile, and follows Dean outside.

"Dean," Sam starts when they reach the Impala, his voice rough.

"Shut up," Dean snaps, but Sam grabs his arm. Dean turns around.

"Sam, don't," he warns. "You don't want to...don't."

"I don't want to, what?" Sam asks, because of course he doesn't let it go. Sam never lets things go. Dean feels anger well up inside of him. He reaches up, curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Sam's head, and tugs him down harshly. Their mouths come together, and Dean kisses him hard, bites and nips at Sam's lips until they part, until he can slide his tongue in. It's punishment; it's _See? This is what you get for egging me on_.

It's only when he finds himself backed up against the Impala, feels Sam's body press against his, that he realizes Sam is kissing him back. 

_No_ , he thinks. It's all wrong. Sam doesn't want this, has never wanted this. And Dean is okay with that. He's lived with this for years, forever, and it's been okay. He's dealt with it, buried it deep, distracted himself with drinks and girls and _protect Sam at all costs_. From monsters, from his destiny, from Dean himself and those stupid, impossible feelings.

Dean presses his hand against Sam's chest, ready to push him away. But Sam moves in even closer, so close Dean can't tell where he ends and where Sam begins, and moans into Dean's mouth. So pretty. So wanton.

When they break apart their breathing is ragged and they're both hard. Dean can feel Sam against his hip. 

"Sammy," he starts. "We shouldn't. We can't."

"Shut up," Sam echoes his words from earlier. He ducks his head down, kisses Dean, all sweet and soft now, nothing like before. His nose brushes against Dean's. 

"You don't want this," Dean tries.

Sam snorts. "Feels like I do."

"You're confused. Because of what happened. It's fucked with your head, Sammy," Dean says. "But it doesn't have to mean anything. We weren't _us_."

"Shut up," Sam repeats, amused. It's that voice he always uses when he thinks Dean is being an idiot. Not _You're an idiot and I'm annoyed_ but _You're an idiot and I love you_. 

"There's no way back, Sam. No take backs," Dean says. Because it would kill him. It already is killing him; the only thing keeping him going right now is that he can tell himself the whole thing was a hoax, it wasn't real to begin with. He never really had Sam, because Sam wasn't thinking clear, wasn't being himself.

Sam kisses him again. A quick, insistent press of his lips against Dean's. Then once more. And again.

"Good," he murmurs. "I don't want to take this back."

He pulls back, meets Dean's gaze. He looks earnest in a way on Sam ever could.

Dean slumps. He tips his head forward onto Sam's shoulder. 

He surrenders.

+

They're lying in bed. Their legs are tangled, sheets twisted around them.

Sam noses along Dean's shoulder, kisses the spot where the bruise has faded. He opens his mouth, runs his tongue over it, and then worries the skin between his teeth. It's gentle, unhurried. He sucks on the flesh, brings the blood closer to the surface, and Dean tilts his head to the side even as he says, "Jesus, Sam. Why don't you just ask me to have your name tattooed on my body?"

Sam hums, scratches his fingers down Dean's side. He nudges his knee up, further between Dean's legs, until his thigh presses against Dean's balls, his spent cock. "Would you?" he asks.

"No," Dean says, tugs at Sam's hair. "Bitch."

Sam lifts his head and grins down at him. "Bet I can make you," he says.

"Bet you can't."

"What do I get if I win?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Other than your name on my body?" Dean mocks, and Sam nods. "It's a stupid bet anyway, because there's no way I'm tattooing your freaking name onto my body, you moron."

"If you do, I get to top," Sam murmurs. He slides his hand back behind Dean, palms his ass, his thumb rubbing over the crack.

Dean snorts. "And if I win?" 

"I get to top," Sam says, and laughs softly.

"Sam," Dean says, rolling his eyes. He cups Sam's face in his hands and pulls him down. "How about you forget about the stupid bet and fuck me?"

"Fine," Sam agrees, but he turns his head before Dean can kiss him, nuzzles his jaw. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow, we're going back and killing those fucking fairies," he says. He slips a finger between Dean's cheeks, rubs it over Dean's hole, still wet and open from earlier.

"Fuck yeah," Dean says around a moan.

They can throw glitter at them all they want this time. It doesn't matter anymore. Dean is going to torch the stupid forest down if he has to, doesn't matter how long it takes. And then he's going to take Sam back to the motel, let Sam fuck him on every available surface and up against the mirror in the bathroom, so they can both see the marks Sam put on him this time.


End file.
